Kareem Between: Game Time

So I’m outside my house,
fighting frigid winter wind,
my Punky McMahon style
fueling my fire.

I snap my ball
SIDEWAYS,
scramble;
it
d
r
o
p
s,
but I yell anyway,
TOUCHDOWN!

I swallow
my
foreboding,
imagine myself on the team.

peek
into the living room:
Sameer’s on the couch
watching cartoons,
eyes glued to the TV,
and I know if I grab the remote
to switch to the sports channel
his voice will
shriek like
four starving pterodactyls.

I sit and devour
the deliciousness
of Syrian dough
dusted with herbs.

They’ll force you to
be in the army!

I scoop the fūl up,
stuffing small pockets
of pita bread
with the
salted,
boiled
fava beans.

Jameelah snatches the saltshaker from my hand
and prattles on and on
about her latest
project. Saving turtles or
something else
animal related.

She’s the oldest,
which means
her voice is
louder than mine
and my parents
always see
her accomplishments first.

Jameelah scoffs.

I clench my fists.

Will, not can,
I grumble.

I listen to my parents,
words flowing from their mouths
smooth and easy,
but
when it’s my turn
my
language is a
ball fumbling in a wide receiver’s hands,
up and down,
up and down,
a choppy play
to my parents’ perfect
spiral.

Jameelah hides a smirk.

And although
she’s the reason
I’m proficient
in English,
my passion for
words unfolding
when I watched Mama
prepare for her
GED a few years ago,
read short stories
with her
from textbooks,
listened to her
repeat grammar rules,
and sounded out along with her
as she tried to
pronounce English
perfectly,
she passed,
and I’m
still learning.

I throw a thumbs-up
at Sweetness and
Samurai Mike,
pretend I’m
McMahon
getting ready to throw,
and sit,
spinning to a standstill
in front of my desk.

Time to tackle
all my
stacked
papers.

I do Austin’s first,
spending all my good ideas
writing his essay,
on how foreshadowing shows
the Baudelaires were
going to be unhappy
with Count Olaf,
how the narrator
of the story
is omniscient
and therefore
knows everything
that will happen,
and how context clues
show
something
BIGGER,
more sinister,
is going on
that will tie
the series together.

And even though
I grumble
about having to
wrangle my curly hair
with a small splash of shampoo,
Fridays DO feel special.

Maybe it’s
sitting next to Baba
on the fluffy carpet
in the front row,
my community
gathered around us,
the Imam smiling,
telling stories of real heroes,
Prophets,
who saved real people.

A lady
stands close,
staring at my sister,
hands wrapped around
her wooden cane,
brows furrowed in a frown.

Mama’s fear is on her face,
eyes wide,
hands fluttering to
drag her drab
brown beanie
lower
over her hijab.

It is also used to refer to the symbolic gesture started by Colin Kaepernick in 2016 to protest racism.

My parents always say that
when I ask
questions,
and their eyes dart
to the side
as if they can
escape
by looking away.

I fold and pass to
Jameelah,
who folds and packs in a box
that Baba picks up
and takes to the
wall,
where the Imam heaves it
up
and takes it
outside.